She Writes Something on the Board and I Miss It

TW: mentions of trauma

Note: I don’t really know if this situation counts as trauma but it was the closest word my brain could find while writing this. I don’t mean to offend anyone with this piece. I’m just attempting to figure out what my story is and write it as best as I can. Enjoy! :)

She writes something on the board

and I miss it

because my brain is

too busy thinking

about my own handwriting.

Too busy comparing it to chicken scratch.

Too busy echoing my father’s hypocritical voice

throughout my neurons:

“Your handwriting really needs to get better.

Really needs some work.”

Some days,

I can barely even read

my own handwriting.

I get it, dad.

I’m sorry my teachers failed me

in first grade.

I’m sorry my hands have

always been too small

and my wrists even smaller.

I’m sorry I wasn’t your perfect, tiny, legible,

within the lines,

handwriting queen.

I don’t know what

you want from me.

She writes something on the board

as I scribble the word

trauma

into my notebook

like nails against a chalkboard.

Like a hernia.

Like something has burrowed

inside me for years

and is just now

making its grand entrance.

This one word on a page

breaking reality into little shapes,

opaque filter,

making everything

and nothing

make sense

all at once.

I don’t know what my

relationship to this word is yet.

If we’re friends

or lovers

or acquaintances

or nothing at all.

Just strangers passing by,

never to see each other

ever again.

I don’t know what this word means

for the universe

I have built for myself

yet.

For now, I scribble trauma

in my notebook,

miss what she writes on the board,

and listen to my dad’s voice

in my ear

like an ear worm on loop

for a nightmare:

“You can do so much

better.”